Ticket To Heaven
by Amends to the Living
Summary: "Her light eyes seem to be focused on anything but me. I'm momentarily jealous of the carpet, the arm of the sofa, and even the throw blanket." Post S1. Pre-established Rizzles. One-shot.


**A/N:** First attempt at Rizzles, all in Jane's POV. I don't own anything; I merely twist the lush amount of subtext to my liking. Cheers (:

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><p>I'm not really sure why I'm reading <em>Seventeen<em> magazine, but it might have something to do with the fact that Maura and I went shopping together this afternoon… and okay, okay, so it might have accidentally landed in our cart. My train of thought was that barely legal heartthrobs would be a funny polar opposite in contrast to the piles of medical journals and vanilla folders usually littering our coffee table—yes, the "our" conjunction still sounds strange, even in my head—and I was right.

Of course, that didn't stop my blonde M.E. from interpreting my mischief as an incomplete phase in my childhood… or something. I stopped listening after the words "Twilight phenomenon." The only way to get me back on that wagon would be a conversation that goes a little something like this:

"_Bite me."_  
>"<em>Don't mind if I do."<em>

So here I am, sitting on the couch with my legs draped across her lap, brows furrowed in mock concentration. Because really, I could care less who's dating who, or how to style Jo Friday's fur. The nail polish article does make me snicker, only because at least that's so Maura.

"Are you laughing about the inaccuracies of vampirism, or did you get to the nail polish?"

Dammit, how does she do that?

Maybe one of her patients passed along some kind of sixth sense before they moved on. "Like telekinesis…" I don't notice myself mouthing the words, even if most of my face is hidden behind the pre-pubescent gossip magazine.

"Telepathy, Jane," Maura corrects me without even batting an eye in my direction. "Telekinesis implies having the ability to _move_ things with your mind. Telepathy, however, is the ability to _read_ minds. Despite its heroic and vastly overproduced usage in comic books and modern animated dramas, being finely tuned to your partner by finishing their thoughts or sentences is a sign of a healthy relationship."

For the record, let it be known that she said all of that in a single exhale.

Damn.

The only way that I can come close to that is when I mirandize a suspect.

"Thank you, Professor Xavier," I mutter good-heartedly with a smirk, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she racks her brain for a reference to that name. I'm sure she'll look him up later, when I'm not around to grin smugly about it. "Beer run. Want one?" I ask after tossing aside the magazine, pulling my legs up and underneath me as I lean over to nuzzle her cheek.

Her giggle is always the most rewarding response, while feeling her arms circle around my neck comes in at a close second. "Mmm, I'll get it," she offers, before pressing her lips against mine to swallow the remark that is resting on the very tip of my tongue. "If you so much as mention a sandwich in a chauvinistic way, you'll be sleeping right here."

I know she means it, but the characteristic little Cheshire grin is unavoidable.

Her familiarity with the human body makes me grateful for two reasons: 1) the sex is amazing, and 2) that I'm not a guy. Her Jimmy Choos with the six-inch heels would leave any male eternally barren in about ten seconds flat.

Maura leaves my side momentarily with a calculated, graceful gait and the little sway of her hips leaves me wondering if the girl's got swagger underneath those lush blonde tresses and boundless amount of statistics. Then I roll my eyes at myself.

_You know exactly what's under there, Rizzoli._

Leaning over to flip through the mail, I jump slightly when a pair of tickets falls into my lap. The palms of my hands itch slightly and I curl them into loose fists for a moment, feeling my anxiety level go down. I guess it's the _Fight or Flight_ response instilled into every human being, but mostly strengthened in homicide detectives. Hoyt, the scars, and the accident of sorts didn't help any. They just upped the ante.

Tearing myself out of my self-deprecating thoughts, I inspect the tickets carefully: they're two first-class plane tickets to France.

The first thing that pops into my head is that Maura was planning a getaway to Italy, where everything would be amplified in Rizzoli style by two hundred percent. The second was that she was hiding them, and since she isn't very good at lying, to what end?

Before I can get around to doing any more detective work, Maura is back with a bottle for me, and a long-stemmed glass of white wine for herself. "Thanks, sweetcheeks," I answer as I lean over to kiss her again, but I'm stopped by an index finger as she looks for a drink coaster. Once found, she places it down and holds the beer just out of my reach, her own brand of mischief twinkling in those bright green eyes.

"So… France, huh?" I deadpan, watching as her mouth gapes open and her hand lowers just enough so that I can lean over and snatch it from her grasp. Twisting off the cap with practiced ease, my dark brown locks of hair fall into my face as the other hand holds up the aforementioned tickets.

Without saying a word to incriminate herself, Maura downs her glass in a few large, unladylike gulps and eagerly begins to massage the bottom of my feet with an ever-so-increasing interest. "Despite your socks, you have unusually cold feet, Jane. Did you know—"

"Maura."

Her name rides on a sigh, not sure why it's so difficult for her to admit that she wanted, or maybe even needed, a break. My fingertips close the small distance between us, resting on her flawless porcelain skin while her light eyes seem to be focused on anything but me.

I'm momentarily jealous of the carpet, the arm of the sofa, and even the throw blanket in passing that she starts to knead out of a nervous habit between her thumb and her index finger.

"The nature of that trip no longer applies. So I would appreciate it if you would drop it," she states. The words are punctuated with every heartbeat pounding in my ears at the possibilities swirling around in my head. Have I done something wrong? Did I screw it up for good?

No psychic words of comfort are offered this time; even as I feel her eyes bore a hole into my forehead. She won't look me in the eyes, but she's too proud to forgo her manners completely. It's just an illusion. "Maur…"

But her nickname falls on deaf ears as she retires to our bedroom, leaving me stunned in the living room, but not out of arousal or anger. Just like butterflies caught up in a hurricane. Her scent seems to linger long after she's gone, that expensive but soft smell of a perfume—whose name I can't pronounce—that she dabs on her wrists and along the expanse of her long, alabaster neck; the same one that often sports Jane-sized love bites.

My dark narrowed eyes fall to the tickets again, noticing the date: six months ago.

My mind automatically goes into autopilot as it searches through old fights, or cases warranting alarming phone calls, or…

Shit.

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><p>Dropping everything haphazardly on the coffee table with the mental note that I'll be cleaning up after myself later (to avoid the wrath of an already unhappy Maura), I follow her over to the bedroom. The door is left slightly ajar and although no audible sounds escape her lips, her shoulders are heaving gently and her body is curled up defensively into itself.<p>

Pushing the door open silently the rest of the way, I allow myself to cross the threshold and move towards her side of the bed. Before I can say a word, the distinct pitter-patter of claws against the floor announces a third presence: Jo Friday. Her short tail was wagging furiously, up until she caught on to the tense atmosphere of the room.

Turning her eyes on me, I can see the chastising quality in them which seem to say, _How could you, Jane?_

Ignoring the angry looks from the ball of fur—or furry fury—I sit on the ground beside the bed, now somewhat level with Maura's face as her cheek presses into the mattress and one thousand something thread count sheets, from some country that I'll probably only ever know in relation to the vics' or perps' backgrounds while working a homicide case.

She's still avoiding my eyes, but her body visibly relaxes and I'm not sure if it's because she's putting up her professional front, or if it's because I make her feel at ease regardless of the situation.

Maybe none.

Maybe both.

I decide it's safe to reach for her hand, interlacing our fingers as my back rests against the nightstand. "Look, Maur, I wasn't looking for them. They literally fell out of thin air… I mean, a stack of mail being held in a ninety degree angle in mid-air." My attempt to make her laugh isn't completely thwarted; I know I saw her lips twitch at the corners.

"You don't have to tell me now. It doesn't matter if you don't."

But the curious look in my eyes must have given me away, because the next thing I know a hesitant but equally amused sigh falling from those perfect lips confirm that she's going to speak. Good thing too, because I was about to resort to using puppy dog looks and I don't think I can take the teasing from Jo Friday for weeks on end after this.

"Posthumous civil union," my blonde counterpart articulates as she traces shapes on the back of my hand with her thumb. "It's legal in France and similar forms are also acceptable in Sudan and China." At my blank stare, Maura continues. "During World War I, a few women were married by the use of proxy to soldiers that had died weeks earlier. The woman will often stand next to a picture of her deceased fiancé while the ceremony is taking place, it will be 'I did' instead of 'I do,' and clearly the phrase 'until death do us part' is not emitted."

At this point, Maura pauses. Not out of lack of things to say, but because she's clearly trying to gauge my reaction. I'm not sure when I started sinking further into the floor, letting the surprise of this situation consume me like a black hole into a stupor, but… well, enough said.

Her tightening grip on my hand drags me back into reality, where her deep green eyes are staring at me in concern. "Jane?"

"Hmm?" is all that I can manage, before feeling myself being pulled off the floor and onto the bed. It's weird because we're on the wrong sides of the bed and suddenly that's all I can think about. How the mattress has dipped a little to fit the shape of my girlfriend's body, or how warm it is on this side. I'm sure Maura knows the specifics, but I'm too stunned to utter a damn thing.

"I thought the French were reluctant about, you know," I mutter, and it sounded just as stupid and insensitive as it did in my head.

But Maura seems to like the chance to hear the gears turning in my mind again because she's quick to answer me. "Yes, that is correct. Same-sex marriage remains… taboo in France," she replies and I smile at her little slang term use of the word _taboo_. She's learning.

"However, civil unions are not."

Ahh, there it is, the lump in my throat that I thought I had swallowed for good. It feels to be around the size of a full-grown heart and I'm pretty sure that in any moment it'll be in her hands.

"The primary reason was to legitimize children. However, since our lesbian relationship does not allow us to procreate naturally, it would have had to be planned beforehand. It is a relatively simple procedure in theory. One of your ovum, a trip to the sperm bank, and my womb."

I can't really expect anything less from a chief medical examiner, but the use of the word sperm while lying in a sperm-free zone might require me to wash the sheets later. That, or never have sex again…

Clearly, there's no viable second option here.

"Since that's not possible, as we didn't voice or show our feelings until _much_ after your… you woke up—" She gave me a look just then, one that seared my soul and permanently dotted all my I's with hearts. "It would have been done for… emotional reasons."

I always smile encouragingly at her uncertainty on the uses of anything subjective, like emotions. Her bashfulness is endearing, as much as I'm sure my cluelessness is amusing when she uses her logic on me. Sometimes I'm half-convinced that she's speaking a whole other language.

"In Korea, it is customary for people to marry the soul of a fiancé that died before a planned wedding," Maura adds, which causes my eyebrows to jolt up on my forehead and practically disappear into my scalp.

"Hey now, what wedding?"

But instead of loud and accusatory, my words are gentle and sweet as they roll off my tongue like velvet with a husky undertone. The M.E. just laughs at me. Or with me, I can't really decide. But suddenly it's the most beautiful thing in the world to experience.

"The one I've been planning meticulously my whole existence," my blonde said with an overdramatic roll of her eyes, as if it should be obvious by now. I can tell by the way that she curls her toes that she's trying very hard to do the impossible: lie to me. Only… it doesn't really seem like a lie. Maybe more of a dream, or an extra class at the academy, like a safety precaution for something she was sure that she'd never have to face.

And it's then that I notice how much older she looks since my hospital stay, like those weeks took years of her life. The smile lines crinkling in the corners of her eyes, or the dissipating dark circles around her green orbs and how quickly they glaze over at the mention of my name and the reaper in the same sentence.

Thinking back, more and more of the pieces fall together now and I realize that she was trying to save me. She had channeled my impulsiveness for a union, not to lock me in, but to keep my soul company. Probably without being aware of it, she was fueling the very essence of the term _soul mates_ and what it should be.

Even when I was lying unresponsive on one of those cold slabs in a thin, ugly and itchy hospital garb (which really did nothing for flattery), Maura had no plans to leave me…

It's not until I taste a warm, salty substance on my lips that I realize that I'm tearing up like a fool and Maura… oh, sweet Maura probably has no idea why I'm reacting this way. But then her lips are on my face, kissing away the tears while her fingertips graze over the scars under my shirt. For a while, they were the source of my pain, my fears, and my center of imperfection.

Then Maura came along and helped me see them as battle scars, just like the scars on my hands, and I no longer feel despicable.

"I know, Jane. I know."

The war brewing inside of me subsides with her attentive touch and soothing whispers of sweet nothings. It's been a while since I've shown this level of vulnerability after becoming a homicide detective. In fact, I can count them on one hand.

When the scalpels were pinning me down, I feared showing weakness to my partner, thinking that Korsak would never trust me after that. When I was bleeding out on the concrete, I feared showing my weakness to the world. But here, in the comfort of our home, the fear of showing my weakness to my best friend and my lover seems so irrational.

Finally, my body is at ease again and the blonde at my side seems perfectly content placing feather-light pecks against my knuckles. My natural instinct is to use a defense mechanism and push her away, but I don't. The small battle doesn't go completely unnoticed by my company, however.

"Relax, Jane. It was a very long night and I was susceptible to distressing thoughts. It's very common for people in the process of losing someone close to them to make rash decisions."

I know she's saying that because she thinks it's what I want to hear, so I shake my head and pull her closer, speaking into her hair. "What I can't wrap my mind around is the fact that I could have been married to you right now… you know, if I was dead," I reassure her with a dry chuckle, although it doesn't seem to clear away any of her doubts. "It's romantic, Maur… a little bit on the morbid side, but romantic. I love you."

"I love you too." She gets a funny look on her face then, looking down at our entwined hands, and I'm instantly curious to what else she has to add. "One of the clauses is that the widow is expected to be celibate for the rest of their lives," the blonde adds slowly, a frown apparent on her features. "It's not legally binding, but it's an unwritten rule."

My jaw drops at that. "Forever? But… I thought you'd go necro for me!"

A beat passes and a soft collision between a fist and my arm happens.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"I dreaded the thought of losing you," Maura admitted with little probing, so it was pretty clear that she's wanted to tell me this for a while. We hadn't really spoken about the event or the risks since it happened, too caught up in therapy and getting back to work. "You're my best friend. Just because I'm the_ Queen of the Dead_ doesn't make it any easier."

I inch a little closer to her, sensing her barriers going up again as she isolates herself from the rest of the world. "Hey," I husk as I turn her face towards me, brushing stray strands of hair behind her perfectly shaped ear. "You're _my_ Queen, got that? You don't have to worry. We won't have to go through the French government. Not their President, or their Justice Minister, or their prosecutor. I'm right here… okay?"

Maura simply nods at me, her eyes wide as her lips stretch into the sweetest smile. It's never as crooked as mine, but it's so distinctly Maura that it doesn't have to be. "Okay."

"So… how were you planning on wooing me, Dr. Isles?"

"I can think of a few ways, Detective Rizzoli."


End file.
